


Tzigane

by ifonlynotnever



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ADD!Sherlock, Classical Music, Gen, Introspection, One Shot, Sherlock's Violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:01:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifonlynotnever/pseuds/ifonlynotnever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The violin helps him think by making him not think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tzigane

**Author's Note:**

> I operate under the assumption that Sherlock is wired, at least in part, a bit like I am (i.e., he has ADD). Also, you can download a zip of the pieces mentioned [here](http://www.mediafire.com/?649z4jl3is1m68j).

John barely bats an eyelid when Sherlock finally explodes, mostly because he's been expecting it ever since they came home from the crime scene about an hour ago.

"I can't think!" his flatmate shouts mid-pace, his hands tugging his hair, his eyes over-bright with frustration, his muscles tight with anxious agitation. He looks every inch an escaped madman as he stalks across the room and snatches up his violin.

John watches his flatmate over the top of his computer, and sighs.

"Shut up," Sherlock replies viciously, because he knows John well enough to read the disapproval in the tip-tapping of keys. ( _Keys, keys,_ his mind repeats. _Keys, piano, tuning, telly, programme, nature, bird, wittering, everything wittering, shut up, shut up, just shut up!_ ) "I'm not going to _saw_ at it like a maniac. Last week was different. Now stop it, shut up, I can't _think_!"

(And the phrase itself is ridiculous and patently untrue. He says it anyway, because it's an idiom that John understands, and Sherlock can't be bothered to explain what he really means, which is, _'I can't follow any single important thought to its proper endpoint because other thoughts and external stimuli are distracting me and pulling my attention in directions other than the ones I wish to follow and it's all driving me a bit mad and the only thing that helps is the violin because it makes me not think about everything else.'_ )

So he picks up his bow, settles the violin into place, takes a breath, and chooses a note at random.

It's not right. Another. Another. Another. _Another._

There. That's a good one.

He holds the note. Plays it again. Again.

And then the other notes follow, his fingers almost taking on a life of their own.

It takes him a moment to recognise just what he's playing, because it's not his usual fare. This is uncomplicated, yet sweepingly, vividly graphic. Symphonic poem. A tone painting. The sound of a river, of rapids, of green and blue and grey. Smetana. _Má vlast_. _Vltava_. The song of the Moldau.

Moldau. Bohemian. Czech. Everything is Czech these days. Why? Never mind. Enjoy the notes. Beautiful. Soaring.

Midway through the piece, some part of him says _no, this is wrong_ , and his fingers find another note. He lets them.

Dvořák. _Česká Suita_. Furiant. Czech again. This time a dance, odd and vibrant with the image of brightly-hued skirts swishing. He plays it through, then picks up _Vltava_ where he left off. It feels better after that.

The violin has always helped. Helped him think by giving him focus. Playing music—an instrument—requires everything of him. Muscle memory is only so useful, particularly when it leads to laziness and slack fingers and slipped notes. So he gives over his attention to the violin, to the placement of his fingertips and the sound of the notes and the feel of wood and strings and rosin.

It clears out his head. Fills the space inside with little round blots of ink trapped behind bars, those strange notations that are more than notations, that are sounds and pictures and memories and meanings. Emotions. Sherlock doesn't give himself over to _those_ very often, and when he does, it's usually just irritation or exasperation.

This is different.

There is a well of emotions deep inside him, and when he plays music, it overflows, feelings sloshing over the high stone lip with each drag of his bow. It would be strange and frightening, but this is the way the violin is meant to be played, so it's fine. It's all right. He is still in control.

He holds the last note for a moment too long, allows the strings a moment's rest, and then launches straight into something else, something more familiar.

 _Tzigane_. Ravel. _Not_ Czech. French. Tzigane, gitan. Easier to play than it sounds. It's all in the presentation. Everything is presentation.

It reminds him more of bees than of gypsies.

Gypsies.

 _Gypsies_.

He halts mid-note and lets the thoughts flow back into his head like the most magnificent tidal wave in the universe.

From the corner of his eye, he sees John look up at him expectantly.

 _Gypsies, of course, well, not actual gypsies, but—oh, oh,_ oh!

He takes a moment to set his violin down carefully, then dashes across the flat, grabbing his coat, his scarf, his gloves.

"So you've got it, then?" John asks, the beginnings of a smile at the very corners of his lips when Sherlock tosses him his jacket.

"Oh, yes," Sherlock replies from halfway down the stairs. "I've got it."

"Don't suppose you'd feel like sharing?" John calls back, hastily grabbing his keys and Sherlock's wallet from the table.

And Sherlock, in typical Sherlock fashion, just shouts, " _Tzigane!_ " (whatever _that_ means; he says it as if John's supposed to know exactly what he's talking about), and dashes out into the street to hail a cab.


End file.
